The 'Poet' They Call Jayne
by RevDorothyL
Summary: River discovers that Jayne's been holding out on her, with a hidden talent for editing and updating classic poetry  given the right inspiration. Rayne.
1. Chapter 1

**Jayne's a poet, and River didn't know it**

*****  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Joss Whedon _et __al_ own _Firefly_ and _Serenity_. I'm just playing with the characters for the sake of fun and making zero profit. Oh, and I don't own the works of Lord Byron or William Blake, either, though I'm letting Jayne and River have their wicked way with those gentlemen's poems.

Set a year or so post-BDM. The first chapter is River 's POV. Massively OOC for Jayne _and _River, I'm sure, but I couldn't resist turning Jayne loose on a famous poet with his own version of the old-fashioned editor's blue pencil.

**Author's ****Note:**

Since this site doesn't use the strike-through feature, I've omitted Lord Byron's original words, wherever Jayne had crossed them out, and have instead indicated the original words which Jayne left in using _italics_ and Jayne's own, unique contributions using **bold** font.

*****  
><strong>THE<strong>** '****POET****' ****THEY ****CALL ****JAYNE ****(1/3)**

River Tam, genius and psychic assassin, was hard-pressed to explain the sudden fluttering feeling in her stomach - as though a large number of insects of the order _Lepidoptera _had suddenly emerged from their cocoons inside her belly and taken flight - when she lay back upon her bunk and unfolded the torn piece of paper she'd managed to lift from Jayne's back pocket after dinner that night.

She'd seen a corner of the paper sticking out of the pocket of his cargo pants when he'd been moving some newly arrived crates in the bay earlier that day, and she'd assumed he'd received another letter from his mother. When she asked him about it (knowing that he didn't mind reading his mother's letters aloud to her, so that she could bask in the warm feelings that came with them), he'd practically blushed and said it was nothing: just a scrap of paper he'd found on the floor and was meaning to throw away. Then he'd tucked the paper more securely into his pocket and buttoned the flap over it, all the while thinking the words to _"The __Hero __of __Canton"_as loudly as he could so she was unable to get a Read on him.

With such obvious encouragement, River's curiosity wouldn't let her rest until she'd seen whatever it was that Jayne so badly wanted to keep from her.

Now, she noted with some initial disappointment that it seemed to be merely a page torn out of one of Simon's books - a collection of Earth-That-Was poetry which Simon had picked up in a used book store months ago, when he'd been desperate to learn how to talk to Kaylee without insulting her.

This made no sense to River. Why would Jayne try to conceal from her the fact that he'd (not for the first time) defaced one of Simon's books? Perhaps he was trying to get rid of the evidence of an earlier act of petty vengeance against Simon, now that he and her brother were getting along better?

Turning the page over, she saw that Jayne had apparently written over one of the poems, crossing through some lines and scrawling his own, alternative wording in the margins.

She read . . .

_SHE __WALKS __IN __BEAUTY __by_ **Jayne ****Cobb**

_She __walks __in __beauty, __like __the __night_  
><strong>With <strong>**flyin****' ****fists ****an****' ****broken ****glass**  
><em>And <em>_all __that's __best __of __dark __and __bright__  
><em>_Meet __in __her_ **eyes ****when ****kickin****' ****ass.**

[River noted that something else had been crossed out in the middle of that line - something that began with 'tight lit'l...' - but she quickly turned her eyes to the last two lines of the stanza.]

_Thus_ **fired ****up ****by ****a ****rousin****' ****fight,****  
><strong>**She ****shakes ****her ****head ****an****' ****calls ****me**** '****crass.****'**

_One __shade_ **of ****crazy ****more ****or ****less**  
><em>Had <em>_half __impair'd __the __nameless __grace__  
><em>_Which __waves __in __every __raven __tress__  
><em>_Or __softly __lightens __o'er __her __face,_  
><strong>When <strong>**fixin****' ****the ****Cap****'****n****'****s ****latest ****mess****  
><strong>**And ****flyin' ****the ****ship ****through ****the ****black ****of ****space.**

_And __on __that __cheek __and __o'er __the __brow__  
><em>_So __soft, __so_ **smart, ****an****' ****so ****hell-bent****  
><strong>**On ****thinkin****' ****me ****a **_**gorram **_**hero ****now,****  
><strong>**I ****catch ****the ****tears ****from ****past ****torment****  
><strong>**An' ****I****'****d ****give ****up ****everything ****I ****know****  
><strong>**To ****have ****her ****safe ****an'** _innocent._

Having read Jayne's poetic effort through (and mentally corrected the spelling and punctuation), River found that the butterflies had apparently moved from her stomach to the vicinity of her heart, judging by the strange, rapid beating she felt there.

River suddenly smiled. Jayne had - knowingly or not - issued a challenge to her in writing this down and leaving it where even the most inexperienced pick-pocket could easily obtain it. She would have to answer her favorite ape-man's challenge with one of her own.

Deciding that she didn't want to waste the time it would take to tear another page out of Simon's poetry book (and it was unnecessary, anyway, since she could remember every word from every poem she'd ever been forced to read as a child by a succession of clueless but expensive tutors), River reached for her drawing tablet and tore out a fresh piece of paper.

She began writing . . .

_(to __be __continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**The River Strikes Back**

This chapter is Jayne's POV.

Again, massively OOC for Jayne _and _River, I'm sure, but I still can't resist letting these two battle it out on an unusual (for them, at least) literary playground. Please don't sue me.

**THEOLOGICAL DISCLAIMER**: I'm figuring that the same River Tam who wanted to correct the scientific inaccuracies in Book's bible wouldn't hesitate to change the text of a famous poem that is generally considered to be about the God of that bible and the whole question of theodicy. If there's any heresy herein, blame it on the brilliant but definitely 'different' brain of River, and not on this poor, procrastinating pastor, writing fanfic when she should have been polishing her sermon for this past Sunday.

**Author's Note 1:** Once again, I'm using _italics_ to indicate the poet's original words that River decided to retain and **bold ****font **to indicate her own additions and amendments to William Blake's work.

* * *

><p><strong>THE '<strong>**POET'****THEY ****CALL ****J****AYNE ****(2/3): 'The River Strikes Back'**

Jayne Cobb, heartless mercenary and ruthless 'public relations' specialist for the surviving crew of the infamous ship _Serenity_, almost felt a nervous tremor in his hands when he unfolded the piece of paper that _someone_(though he suspected that in this instance 'someone' could be translated as 'moon-brained killer woman who seemed to delight in damaging his calm') had managed to tuck behind Vera on his gun-rack during the night, while he slept within easy reach, so that the paper was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes this morning.

At first, he wondered why the _gorram_ girl had drawn him a picture of a big, mean-looking, orange and black striped cat, but then his sleepy eyes focused on the words printed above the picture, and he swore long and loudly before springing off his bunk like his _pi gu _was on fire.

Jayne had slept in his clothes last night, having been too tired to do otherwise after helping Mal polish off a bottle of cheap whiskey in the mess (Mal had had another fight with Inara, and Jayne's new, mellower, 'one for all and all for one' attitude since Miranda required that he stay and keep the other man company out of crew loyalty, he told himself - well, loyalty _and _masculine solidarity over the crazy-making ways of womenfolk on the ship). He'd only tossed half of his room in search of yesterday's cargo pants before he remembered that he was still wearing them. Under the circumstances, he felt that no one could blame him for being a little off his game this morning.

This time there was a definite (though so tiny as to be imperceptible to anyone with senses less finely honed than Jayne's) trembling to his hand when he reached into the back pocket of his sleep-wrinkled pants and found no trace of the scribbled-over poem that he'd been carrying around for the past two weeks, trying to work up the nerve to throw it away before he did something stupid like let the barely-legal killer-woman/girl see it, let alone her over-protective brother or their wrench-swinging captain.

Jayne's brief (but manly) panic started to recede as he took stock of the fact that the girl had apparently seen the 'poem' that he'd sort of re-written for her in an idle moment (hoping that his frustration with the whole candy-assed poem-writing process would distract him from - or even cure him of ever again thinking about - a more physical frustration that had been plaguing him lately) and yet she had let him live.

So far.

Knowing her, she might just be inclined to torture him a bit with hope and fear before mercifully cutting his throat.

Figuring that she might change her mind about letting him continue to draw breath at any moment, and that he should make the most of whatever time he had left, Jayne decided not to waste his last minutes in this 'verse kicking himself for having been stupid enough to teach her to pick pockets a few months back. (In his defense, it had seemed like an innocent enough way to get the girl to repeatedly slip her slender hand into his increasingly tight pants pockets . . . and the look on Simon's face when she'd later demonstrated her newfound thieving ability on him had been _gorram _priceless!)

If he was doomed anyway, there was no harm in seeing what exactly the girl - aw, hell, he might as well start calling her 'his girl' at least in his own mind, since that cat was definitely living bag-free now . . . . Anyway, he should find out what _his _beautiful, homicidal girl had written:

_THE _**TIGER, ****by ****River****Tam**

**Panthera ****tigris, **_burning __bright__  
><em>_In __the __forests __of __the __night,__  
><em>_What _**mere ****mortal ****knife ****or ****knee**  
><em>Could <em>**harm **_thy __fearful __symmetry?_

After carefully sounding out the girl's needlessly complicated writing and long words in that first part, Jayne thought for a minute, trying to figure out what exactly she meant. He'd written _his_ semi-borrowed poem about _her_, so logically she ought to be writing about _him_.

Was she threatening to take a knife to him (again!), and/or use her knee to finish the work of destroying his manhood that she'd started back in The Maidenhead bar?

Damnit, she _was _plannin' to torture him before killin' him - he'd known it all along!

On the other hand, could this be some of that 'poetical license' he'd heard about (and had originally thought meant that people in the Core had to buy a license for writing poetry, and that was why all the best rhymes only seemed to show up anonymously on public bathroom walls)?

Maybe it was the girl's moon-brained way of saying she hoped she hadn't permanently spoiled his rugged good looks when she'd carved on his chest that one time, and that he still had a matched pair of working balls after the way she'd squeezed them so hard (and maybe she'd just said 'knee' instead of 'fist' in order to make it rhyme with 'symmetry')?

Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad, after all.

Jayne read on.

_In _**my ****darkness, ****beset ****by ****lies,****  
><strong>**Burns **_the __fire __of __thine __eyes._**  
><strong>**And ****when ****on ****winged ****feet ****I ****fight,**_  
><em>_What _**hand ****but ****yours ****dare ****halt ****my ****flight?**

He wasn't exactly sure what any of that meant, except that it sounded like she'd maybe taken a fancy to his bright, sizzling hot eyes and didn't mind too much the thought of him layin' a hand on those strong, talented legs of hers.

He could work with that!

_And __what _**biceps**_, __& __what _**violent** _art,__  
><em>_Could _**un-**_twist __the __sinews __of _**my **_heart?_  
><strong>Who <strong>**but ****thyself, ****with ****tiger ****stealth,****  
><strong>**Could ****join ****me ****in ****my ****dance ****of ****death?**

'Stealth' and 'death'?

Jayne snorted.

Sure, it was nice that she liked his biceps (he worked hard enough on them, and he'd noticed that she seemed to find any excuse to brush up against his arms when sitting next to him at the dinner table).

But did she think he was too dumb to notice that those two words didn't exactly rhyme? Okay, so maybe he'd fudged a bit on his own poem by tossing in 'know' with 'brow' and 'now' - but the original version had been much worse, rhyming 'glow' and 'below' with 'brow', so he figured he'd done at least fifty percent better on that particular rhyme than that prissy-sounding Lord Byron fellow.

And, it seemed, he was at least as good at this rhymin' business as Miss River Tam with all her genius brain and education.

Jayne smiled, looking forward to seeing if she'd made any other rhyming mistakes that he could later bring to her attention - assuming that he wasn't dead, of course.

**When ****I ****slip ****the ****Blue ****Hands****' **_chain_**  
><strong>**And ****punish ****those ****that ****raped ****my **_brain,_**  
><strong>**Any ****who ****escape ****my **_grasp_**  
><strong>**Will ****at ****your ****hands ****breathe ****their ****last ****gasp.**

Jayne's smile grew broader.

_Now_ she was talking! It sounded like she was promising him that he could watch her back when she hunted down the motherless trash who had been behind that Academy _go-se_. She'd talked with him about that a couple of times since Miranda - _just_ with him - and he'd wondered if that meant that she'd be willing to let him get a few licks in when she started raining hell down on some deserving heads.

He made a mental note to polish up his knives and make sure Vera was in tip-top shape, so that he'd be ready whenever River told him it was time to go on their little side-trip to the exciting world of 'Pay-back'.

Shiny!

_When _**our ****enemies ****rained **_down __their __spears,__  
><em>_And __water'd _**'****Serenity****' **_with _**our **_tears,_**  
><strong>**I ****know ****you ****smiled ****my ****bloody **_work __to __see,_**  
><strong>**Though ****they **_who __made _**our ****foes ****made ****me.**

Jayne snarled a little at that last bit.

It was true, he'd smiled (on the inside, 'cause at the time it hurt too much to move any part of his outside) when those blast doors had opened and he'd seen the girl standin' there over a pile of Reaver bodies, with blood dripping off of her bladed weapons.

But he'd have to have a serious (and possibly painful - and not just for him!) talk with that girl about thinkin' that _she_ was made by the same _hundans _who'd created the Reavers and had turned the Operative into the soulless child-killer that he was.

Those bastards had tried to _un_make her with their torture and their conditioning, and she'd managed to survive and somehow recreate herself enough to take down the monsters they'd set loose, in order to save her family.

The sooner she stopped thinkin' that she was in any way the creation of her tormenters, the better. 'Cause it weren't true, no-how.

And he was gonna make sure she remembered that, even if he had to paddle some sense into her . . . assuming she'd let him do that, and not kill him with her brain or nothin' for even thinking about it . . . .

[_five minutes later_]

. . . Well, he'd been thinking about a little recreational and therapeutic spanking with a certain girl for a few minutes now, and he wasn't dead yet.

Jayne took that as another encouraging sign, and resumed reading.

**Panthera ****tigris, **_burning __bright__  
><em>_In __the __forests __of __the __night,__  
><em>_What _**mere ****mortal, ****soon ****to ****die,**_  
><em>_Dare _**challenge ****our **_fearful __symmetry?_

Jayne didn't even bother to rejoice over the girl's imperfect rhyming of 'die' with 'symmetry' (or worry that somehow she was threatening _him _with that last line). It sounded to him like the girl was admitting that the two of them made a pair - that they belonged together - and she was willing to kill (or at least threaten to kill, in the case of her idiot brother, he supposed) anyone who wanted to stand in their way.

Jayne whooped for joy as he left his quarters, River's poem still clutched in his hand.

He had himself a crazy-flexible killer woman to find and some serious _not_-talking to do!

* * *

><p><strong>Author's <strong>**Note ****2****: **I'm assuming that River had at some point seen a capture, at least, of one of the 18th-century published editions of Blake's poem, illustrated by the author himself (see images of the 1794 illustrated plates on Wikipedia, under the article on "The Tyger"), and would - naturally! - have drawn a more anatomically exact Bengal tiger when she recreated that page from memory for her little surprise gift for Jayne. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Epilogue: "There Once Was a Poet Named Jayne..."**

**Author's ****Note: **Again, massively OOC for Jayne and River, I'm sure, but I still can't resist letting these two battle it out in yet another pseudo-literary venue.

This fic was partly inspired by the many kind reviews I received for the first two chapters, and partly by a rerun of _'__The __Big __Bang __Theory__' _that I finally saw a couple of nights ago (the one where the guys combined several leisure activities into one new game, 'Secret Agent Chess').

I own nothing and no-one (especially not Joss Whedon's _'Firefly'_), and I make no profit from playing with these characters.

This chapter is as 'fluffy' and silly as it gets, so don't expect profundity, please!

* * *

><p><strong>THE<strong>** '****POET****' ****THEY ****CALL ****JAYNE ****(Epilogue, ****3/3)**

River Tam, psychic assassin and self-proclaimed wielder of the deadliest pen on _'__Serenity__'_, bounced lightly on the soles of her feet as she faced her opponent across the currently empty cargo bay. Most of the crew was away for the evening, enjoying shore leave in the unusually safe and welcoming rim-world town that was the site of their latest delivery job, making this the perfect opportunity to have it out once and for all with her arch-nemesis and chief rival on the ship: the Man Called Jayne.

"Are you ready?" River asked, narrowing her eyes as she studied the fighting stance adopted by her much larger foe. Hearing his affirmative grunt, River launched her first attack, throwing a knife directly at Jayne's head.

As he effortlessly ducked out of the way, Jayne began his recitation, timing his lines of verse to fit in between River's attempts to hit him with knives, bottles, and occasionally her fists:

_"__There __once __was __a __girl __from __Osiris__"_

[Thwack!]

_"__Who __weren__'__t __no __bigger __than __a __virus__"_

[Whoosh! Crash!]

_"__Then __she __went __on __the __run,__" _

[Thump!]

_"__And __had __lots __of __fun__" _

[Plonk!]

_"__And __if __the __Cap__'__n __finds __out, __he__'__s __gonna __fire __us.__"_

[Thud!]

River sniffed in exaggerated disdain, as they paused for Jayne to catch his breath.

"That was uninspired, and uninspiring," she critiqued. "Also, I almost caught you with that second bottle. You should lose points for that."

"Ha!" Jayne retorted, demonstrating his eloquence yet again. "It's _my_ game, and I told you: 'almost' doesn't count. 'Close' only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and housework, little girl - **not **in Semi-Lethal Dodge Limericks."

"'Close' also counts in thermonuclear warfare," River objected (reasonably, she felt).

"Well, there ain't no nukes allowed in this game, alright? So now it's your turn." Jayne paused and grinned. "Unless you're ready to admit that I'm the deadliest poet on this here crew?"

"No! Never!" River protested, silently resolved to make him pay for that oh-so-taunting grin (he knew exactly what it did to her and he was only using it now to distract her, the evil-sexy ape-man!) once they were alone in their bunk later tonight.

In the meantime, River had a game and a title to win. It was a matter of pride, after all.

"I'm ready!" River called as Jayne warmed up his throwing arm. "Begin!"

[Twang! Thwick!]

_"__There __once __was __a __man __they __called __Jayne__" _

[Clank!]

_"__Who __excelled __at __causing __great __pain,__" _

[Swish! Smack!]

_"__Which __the __girl __appreciated,__" _

[Thunk!]

_"__When __they __caught __up __with __those __she __hated,__" _

[Fwoosh!]

_"__But __not __when __his __whiskers __clogged __the __drain!__"_

[Crash!]

**That **would teach him to trim his beard (dashing and devastatingly handsome though his goatee undeniably was) over the sink in their quarters, River thought in triumph, as Jayne looked at her in astonishment, mouth hanging open as though honestly shocked that she'd use that as ammunition!

Jayne's own eyes narrowed in calculation. _Well, __if __**that**__'__s __the __way __she __wants __to __play __it__.__.__.__._ "Oh, it's **on **now, killer-gal. No quarter?"

River grinned back at him, exhilarated by both the game and the growly tone in his voice, promising even more interesting retribution later on. "No quarter," she confirmed, happily.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The <strong>__**End**_ (Really, This Time)


End file.
